I Don't Have Friends
by AbstractionDesolation
Summary: But he does .. And so much more. This will become slash with at least implied sexual content. A first attempt at "Johnlock."
1. Chapter 1

"It turned out in the end. I don't see how it is concerning to you." His elegant eyebrow arched as John's jaw fell in frank surprise. John mouthed silently a few times before turning his head away disgustedly.

"It *is* concerning to me Sherlock. Surely your brilliant mind can see that!" He turned back to face the stoic detective and glared. His eyes traced over the thin trickle of blood that had dried down the side the other man's face. A split over one sharp cheek bone was swelling and oozing its own rivulet. Rib damage made Holmes stand less than straight. "You forget that not everyone plays by your rules! You're lucky you weren't shot, you know that right?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Shot? My dear Watson, they wouldn't have shot me."

"Oh? And why not pray tell?" John paced a small circle in front of couch.

Sherlock stepped gingerly around him and flopped onto the sofa. He propped his feet up on the arm rest, ankles crossed, and raised his arm to cover his eyes. "Because they were caught. There was no benefit in it to shoot me." An involuntary twitch was the only outward indication he gave of pain.

"Caught? Dear god, man, do you hear yourself? They thought nothing of beating you with that pipe -"

"Part of a tire iron." Sherlock interjected.

"Who cares what they hit you with - the point is that if I hadn't been able to decipher that note you left me you'd have been down that alley alone in the middle of the bloody night with no back up." Honestly, the note had been unintelligible to him. He'd followed a hunch and gotten lucky, but the detective didn't need to know that. Holmes didn't believe in intuition and gut feelings, only what could be seen and deduced, but John knew that sometimes you just had to go by instinct.

"Note?" Sherlock rose, less smoothly than usual, and stood in front the doctor. "I didn't leave a note."

"Yes. You did. On the table." He motioned towards the cluttered sideboard.

Sherlock covered the distance in three long strides, snatching the paper John indicated. His eyes flicked over it and a slow smile spread across his lips. He turned, slight smirk curling his features as he looked at John. "This?" A nod from the shorter man. "This is a list of cases I've solved reading the papers this week. It has nothing to do with my whereabouts tonight."

Dumbfounded John snatched the scrap from the detective and scanned over it again. "I... Well. Then." He closed his mouth, turned on his heel, and strode toward his room. He spoke over his shoulder. "You should clean those cuts. The cheek shouldn't scar, but you'll have a hell of a bruise. If the ribs are just bruised, or broken, the treatment stays the same and you won't abide. You should take it easy and rest." He shook his head, chuckling ruefully. "But I know you won't."


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes peered after the retreating Doctor, waiting until the door closed behind him. When the latch had clicked he slipped out of his coat and scarf, dropping them to the carpet. He touched his left side tenderly, looking at the bloodied fingers he pulled away curiously. Between his lower ribs, at the edge of his body, was a burning ache where he had, indeed, taken a bullet.

The shirt was powder burned, crimson, and shredded so he peeled it off carefully, tossing it toward the rubbish bin. An involuntary hiss slipped through his teeth as the muscle movement jarred the exit wound. A through and through, no major organs hit. Possibly grazed a rib bone. He catalogued the truths of the gunshot. Contorting painfully he tried to see both sides. It caused him to do an awkward pirouette and he nearly stumbled.

"Sherlock I -" the words died in Watsons throat as he laughed at the twirling detective. The laugh abruptly stopped when he saw the shocked and pained look on Sherlock's face. The taller man straightened and turned his body away in a desperately futile attempt to hid the injury.

"You bloody idiot!" John glowered momentarily before dashing back to his room. He returned with his kit, already rummaging. "You really are something. You have no regard for anyone, including yourself. This needs attention. Now."

Reluctantly Holmes edged nearer the doc. He stood, bleeding and chilled, half naked in the kitchen area of the flat as John switched on a lamp, shoved a pile of lord knew what off a space on the table, and set his tools down. "Come here." John turned him, adjusting the lamp and the other man's body to get a better look. He sat in the kitchen chair, leaning forward, close enough for Sherlock to feel his agitation. "This needs cleaned and stitched."

He pulled a bottle of antiseptic and some clean gauze from his bag without looking and focused. The white fabric quickly soaked red and black with blood and powder burn. "He was close, the one that shot you." Sherlock murmured assent. In a clinical voice John went on. "Missed anything vital or you'd be bled out by now. No organ or major blood vessel involvement." He probed the bridge of flesh that covered the tunnel of the shot and Sherlock flinched back. John just kept working. "Hand me the little packet of suture."

It was handed over silently. The small white rectangle contained three feet of thin suture connected to a curved needle. They were used in clinic as well as on battle field as they were small, easy, and useful. John was grateful he'd thought to keep some. "I can inject you. lidocaine. It will dull the area, make the stitches hurt less." He looked up to see Holmes staring down at him.

"No, just do it." He spoke in a dull, almost bored tone.

"You're sure?" Disbelief laced the words.

When he gave an answering nod Holmes could have sworn he heard the doctor mutter, "bloody idiot" again under his breath. The pressure and tugging sensations began and he concentrated on watching John's small, deft movements. Before long two small white bandages adorned his side, covering the dual rows of thin black knots.

"Here now. Sit." John stood and nudged his way around the wounded man, maneuvering until they had swapped. He now stood taller, able to see the facial laceration. "Look up." The light was adjusted and John got to work cleaning the cheek. He was focused entirely on the gash and Sherlock studied him carefully. A quick cleanse and a small butterfly closure saw that mission checked off. Next the laser focus swung toward the head wound.

It felt strange to have John Watson standing in front of him, running his strong hand through his hair. An unusual sensation. At last the doctor stood back from his patient.

"Not much to do there I'm afraid. Lots of blood, as typical from a scalp cut, but nothing to see. You'll have to wash the blood out, and I'm sure it will sting. But you deserve it you damnable fool." The last sentence was venomous. "You may be one of the most brilliant minds of the world, but you have no sense of self preservation."

In moments he disposed of his used materials, and disappeared back into his room. Sherlock was left sitting in their kitchen, freshly mended, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, confused.


	3. Chapter 3

John sat at the edge of his bed, staring vacantly at the floor. He was absolutely astounded that Sherlock hadn't thought to mention something like that. Forgetting to tell the doctor that there is a severed body part in the crisper, sure. Experimental drugs in the coffee, not a mention of course. But this? Being shot? He just couldn't wrap his brain around it. He'd been using a worst case scenario when he'd thrown the example in the detective's face, hoping to make a point. When he'd come out of his room he'd fully intended to take the man to task again, but the sight of Holmes's naked and bleeding torso had thrown that out the window.

He didn't know why that hurt, but it did. He thought they had a more mutually respectful relationship than that. He was a DOCTOR for god's sake. It was his job to take care of injury, but Sherlock hadn't even considered telling him. He'd not given the man a choice at that point and gone into military mode, triaging and treating. The cheek cut was shallow and minor, the head wound barely discernible, but the bullet hole would have been trouble without intervention. He shook his head, wondering how such a genius could be so stupid.

What Sherlock had in sheer intelligence he lacked sorely in people skills. The man obviously had not one clue as to why John had been so angry. It also appeared he had even less of an idea about why John had immediately tended to the wounds. He'd been an obedient patient, handing over needed items, standing through the stitches with no protest, making no movement as John had finger combed through his hair looking for the source of the blood.

It was like he was an alien. A lithe, surprisingly fit alien... John shook his head. Where had that thought come from? He tried to follow a different track, to make a list of what he'd need to replace in his kit before the next emergency. And there would be another emergency, whether it was Holmes injured or himself. There seemed to be a never ending supply of people wanting to inflict pain on one of the duo. As he catalogued the used equipment he couldn't help but see where each piece had been used. From there his thoughts drifted further.

Holmes had been half naked, skinny but not dangerously so, with a taut layer of muscle that was never evident in his greatcoat and scarves. Even his day clothing didn't give away the fact that the sleuth was hiding a rather decent body... "Jesus." John got up, shaking his head again like he could dislodge the thought, and headed for the bathroom for a shower. Why was he suddenly thinking about Sherlock as a good looking man? When - why - had that started? Deeply puzzled he didn't notice the room was already occupied.


	4. Chapter 4

Well, really, that was done backwards. Holmes pondered his taped abdomen. Should have washed the blood off completely first and then bandaged up. He contemplated just going to bed but knew from experience that the crust from allowing dried blood to remain in his hair too long got itchy and uncomfortable. Not to mention the looks he got from Mrs. Hudson and the doctor when laundry time came around again.

Honestly, his flat mate should have foreseen this. He sighed and shed the rest of his clothes. Actually, he should have foreseen it, blatant as it was. But what was done was done and he had no choice. The shower was steamy, soothing the aches that had come with the rest of the beating. The youths he'd cornered had been part of a string of thefts he'd been hired to solve and he'd had no thought that they'd react so violently. He'd simply meant to tell them they were found out, extract a promise that the items would be returned, and then leave.

They hadn't seen it that way. One had been emboldened by the fact that Sherlock was alone and had struck him across the shoulder from behind with the bit of tire iron. After that he'd held up as long as he could, trusting his deductions to keep him out of the way of real harm. He'd been suddenly distracted by John's shouting at the far end of the alley and hadn't noticed the snub nose one of the hoodlums had produced. The sound of it had been lost in the commotion and ensuing sirens as the gang had tried to flee. He and John left them to the law and gone home after a brief statement to Lestrade. The detective inspector had wanted Sherlock to be treated at the scene, not even knowing the extent of the injuries, but he hadn't pushed and in the end let them return home.

Now he stood under the hot spray and let the water pound down on him. The water turned pink at first as it found pockets of blood. He looked around the confines of the tiled space. John had a bottle of shampoo/conditioner blend that he'd left in the corner and Sherlock grabbed it. Bubbles frothed as he worked the soap through, foam slipping down and burning not only his eyes but his cheek as well. He groaned to himself and braced his hands against the wall, letting water wash it away and cascade down his back.

He felt the heated wetness soaking the gauze, knew it would need redone when he got out. He found himself not minding the thought. John was so ... So gentle. Even the parts he logically knew should hurt were bearable because he watched the care with which Watson moved. He'd become fascinated with the skilled hands that worked on him. Watson was calm, deft, and intent as he focused on each wound. The man's whole demeanor had changed, Sherlock was interested to note. He had been furious and frustrated, but as he worked Sherlock saw ... what? ... flicker through the blue eyes. Confidence, a surety in himself, but something else was there as well

It was an emotion he'd noted in others, Molly most recently. He wasn't sure if it was pity, or need, or ... was it caring? Others seemed to think the looks Molly gave him were adoration, though he wasn't sure he believed that. He had no experience here. He was out of his depth and wasn't happy about it. Add that to the strange desire he'd had to touch John as he worked, and he was downright troubled. He didn't _touch_ people. Never really understood it. So why did he suddenly want to?

The suds were gone, the water cooling, and his mind spinning trying to make sense of the unfamiliar feelings of the last hour. He spun the knob, shutting off the water, and stepped out, realizing only then that he'd forgotten to bring a towel or robe.


	5. Chapter 5

John was looking at the floor when the door opened. He stepped in to the small bathroom and froze. Feet. Why was he seeing feet? Slowly his gaze slid up from feet to legs to "Dear god man!" John shut his eyes and blindly flung the towel he'd been holding at the very naked detective standing before him. Heat scalded his cheeks as he blushed like a school girl. He turned and scrambled out the door, missing the amusement sparking in Sherlock's eyes.

Shower forgotten he found himself sitting in the corner of the couch, bewildered. He'd already been having odd thoughts and strange musings about Holmes, now his mind was full tilt and off to the races. Such long legs... Unexpectedly strong, matching the promise of that leanly muscled torso. He closed his eyes and breathed, deeply and slowly, trying to count the seconds instead of letting his mind's eye wander over what bridged the span between legs and torso.

He was quite honestly hot and bothered all of a sudden, and it was all due to his flat mate. Thinking it through he decided that he'd probably been drawn to Holmes from the very beginning. Why else had he dashed off after the man, moved in with him, and more recently treated his wounds. He'd shot a man for him for Christ's sake. Sherlock had been ready to risk his life, make his choice and prove himself the smarter or the fool to the murderous cabbie.

Reflecting further, John realized how protective of Sherlock he'd felt, even then. The idea that he would be thrown into a world without his friend had been painful and maddening, and he'd taken the shot as much for himself as to save Holmes's life. He felt adrift now. Sherlock was the most enigmatic, irritating individual but he was also beautifully unique, shockingly kind in his fashion, and had astonishingly expressive eyes. John sighed. Sherlock's eyes were fascinating. He had heterochromia - a condition John had looked up once he realized he could never recall if Holmes had green or blue eyes. In truth they were both, light and emotion making the color as ever changing as a spring sky. It was entrancing, yet another thing John found himself attracted to about his friend.

With an unmanly yip John jolted out of his thoughts and opened his eyes. Sherlock had quietly come into the den and had, without warning, flopped down in his customary sprawl across the couch. Never mind that Watson had obviously been occupying a good chunk of the couch. Never mind the awkwardness in the bathroom. Sherlock propped his feet over the arm of the couch and unceremoniously crashed down, head squarely in John's lap. The detective looked up into John's face, fingers steepled together over his chest. "We need to talk."

John stopped breathing for a moment, surreptitiously sliding his gaze down the length of Holmes' form. The towel he'd thrown in the bathroom was wrapped around Sherlock's hips thankfully. "So... Talk." His voice was strong, with no quaver to his great relief. John's lap was damp from Sherlock's wet hair and he had to do a slow blink to keep himself from running fingers though the slick locks.

"Well, really, you know, I would have told you about my... Uh... Condition. Eventually. Maybe."

John made a derisive snort. "Before or after you became septic from infection?"

"Before. Probably. Of course." Sherlock's shoulders were tense against his thighs John was surprised to note. As the detective spoke an intense expression crossed his face that made his eyes a little more blue.

"Oh. Of course. You bloody -"

"Bloody fool, yes, you've said that."

"Well I meant it! One of these times you're going to get into trouble that I can't rescue you from. Do you have any idea how much that thought bothers me?" He winced internally at the tactical error he'd just made, hoping Holmes had missed it. But undoubtedly he'd caught it.

"And why does that bother you?" He'd caught it alright and he focused on it as only he could.

"Well. Because it does." He felt his thoughts muddle together. He wasn't even sure, how the bollocks was he supposed to explain it. He shifted a bit uncomfortably, trying not to show how awkward he felt. Sherlock was so close, so ... Oh for christ's... Sod it.

Tentatively, as though reaching for a cobra, John let his fingers curl through the wet hair at the side of Sherlock's face. "Because I would miss you." There was no answer. Holmes stared up at him from his lap, not moving or acknowledging the shy touch near his temple. A long moment later John spoke again. "Is that it? You wanted to talk, didn't you? Was there more?"


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock rolled off of John and the couch abruptly, startling John. He landed on the floor with a wince and a stifled grunt, then shakily got to his feet. He looked down at himself, angling so John could see where the stitches were laid bare. "I need this patched up again, I think." He looked up and caught John staring at him, again with that unfathomable emotion.

John's heart rate had changed, sped, when he was questioned just now. He'd gotten tense, almost twitchy. With one question, Sherlock had it half figured out. When he'd had the urge to nudge his head closer to the timid petting, to feel John touch him again, another piece clicked and he had reacted. Poorly from the hurt look he was getting now.

Holmes had never felt like he needed anyone. No protection, no companion, least of all someone to comfort and hold him, patch him up and keep him grounded. He'd never had anyone to answer to, no reason to put much thought into anything beyond the moment. It felt damned odd to realize that while he never needed, or wanted, someone like that, he'd gotten it. He could see it now, put the puzzle together. Moments, expressions, conversations flowed together to become the fact that he needed John as much as it turned out John needed him.

"I'll get the kit. Stay there, don't move." John rose tiredly and walked past, skirting him with a wider than needed margin. Sherlock moved anyway, again angling the light and chair as they had been before. He was getting quite cold, having only the towel as clothes and the wet rivulets snaking from his hair. His skin pricked out in goose flesh as John came back. Without a word the doctor dried the area again, checked the sutures, and taped clean gauze down. All the while Holmes stood, feeling the tension and heat from the man leaning so close to him. He felt himself lean ever so slightly, making the contact point infinitesimally stronger.

Watson was done just as carefully and as well as the previous time, but this time there was no quick ability to his movement. He was slower, lost in deep thought as opposed to focused intently on the wound. John stood, maneuvering silently until he could once again look at the cheek wound. He reached up, making sure the butterfly closure was secure still. Just as he was about to pull away Sherlock's hand snaked up and pressed John's hand against his jawline, covering with his own. He nuzzled against the feeling, brief as a spark, before dropping their hands and stepping back.

He shivered, truly cold now that he'd stepped away from that heated touch. He hung his head slightly, looking up through shaggy strands of hair at John. For his part, John looked like he'd been branded, a stunned expression on his face. "Sherlock?" He sounded like he was talking to a scared puppy, a questioning calming lilt to the word. For once witticisms and retorts failed, and Sherlock just slumped his shoulders in defeat. He had nothing to say to cover this, and wasn't sure he wanted to.

"I'm sorry John. I shouldn't have gone off alone again. I should have told you I'd been injured. I should tell you..." He took a steadying breath and in a fast jumble he finished, "that you're the most important person in the world to me and that I don't want to hurt you. In fact I'm a bit undone by you and it confuses me and I don't like being confused so it frustrates me. You frustrate me."

He strode out of the room, intending to dress before he or John could process what he'd just admitted. He'd never been an emotional person. Emotions muddied the waters, hid facts behind desires, changed truths to fit their needs. He could do without emotions. Until now. He was truly vexed. He threw clothes on, not caring what, and finger combed through his finally drying hair. It would do as it would do, regardless of intent. Running his hands up and down his arms he went back to the sofa.

He picked up a book from the pile on the floor - a compendium of obscure plant based poisons, but it didn't keep his interest. His ankles were crossed over the arm of the couch again and he took up nearly the length as he lay there, staring half at the book, half far away into nothingness.

A small sound, a whisper of an "ahem" made him slant his gaze to the room. Watson stood there, having changed his trousers for ones without a wet detective print in them. "That's my spot." He had an odd little smile on his face as he came nearer. Sherlock sat up without moving his feet from the armrest, feeling the bullet wound strain as he used his core muscles. John settled back into his corner of the couch and as Sherlock was about to turn himself to sit up, he felt a strong arm pulling him back down. Wound and angle combined, making him unable to resist well and he found himself back on John's lap.

As he looked up, brow arched in question, he saw John's smile widen just a touch. He settled, rolling his shoulders slightly to fit himself better. It had been an interrogation tactic when he'd done it earlier, designed to startle and reveal. Now that it wasn't his idea it was strange and yet somehow nice. Sherlock laughed, startled. John's smile widened and he idly started stroking Sherlock's hair, almost as if he didn't mean to or didn't notice he was. Very softly John murmured, "Was that so hard to admit?" But Sherlock wasn't sure if John were asking him, or himself.


	7. Chapter 7

Small things changed after that. Nothing Sherlock thought any one would notice, general observers being far less than astute. He allowed the casual touches in public, more for John's sake than his own. Where a word would have served there was sometimes a nudge. Minute brushes of skin when passing something between them became, not frequent - John didn't push like that - but less guarded against. In the flat it was much the same; small motions between the two became less forced apart, contact less militantly avoided.

Sherlock remained confused, but he was able to adjust. He filed away every detail, every look, into the room he reserved in his mind palace for John. He didn't open the room too often, afraid that he may be unable to close the door on those thoughts when he wished to. There was almost always a more pressing matter, something to distract him from that door, and he allowed himself to get swept away in the new direction. Opening that door would just muddy the waters, distract and befuddle, and Sherlock didn't want to deal with the emotional aspect of any of it.

John came in, sighing. "It's raining." Sherlock's tone was bored as he tipped his head back over the arm of the couch to watch John.

"No shit, Sherlock. Whatever told you that? That my hair is damp? My shoes made some tell-tale sound? The fact that they've been going on about the potential for storms tonight on every station?" He chuckled as he slipped his wet shoes off and hung up his coat. "Nothing so mundane as that, surely. Not with you."

"Clever. No." Sherlock pointed a long thin finger to the ceiling. John looked where he pointed, confused.

"Just what is it I'm supposed to be -" he turned in a circle, head up-tilted before making an involuntary sound of disgust.

"Really now John. They're just spiders." He continued to lie there, watching as the small brown house spiders clustered together in the corner. "They're usually not in groups indoors. Came in through the second window on the left. Nearest the pot plant on inside and with a small gap along the top where it doesn't fit properly. Too drafty by the window, instinct says to find safety. Safety means up. Ceiling corners are high, group provides security, it's warmer. Why come in in the first place? Cold, wet environment. It's ... What month is it? ... Anyway. Not time for snow. Spiders congregating in the corner must mean it's raining."

John just sighed. "Well, they and their creepy long legs can stay up there then, but they'd better not find their way to my room." He shuddered.

"Ah, and I thought you liked long legs." John couldn't see his small smile as he waited for the indignant response. John would get flustered, realizing the allusion to Sherlock's own long legs, and either try to deny he'd ever thought about his legs or to try to smooth the implied insult. He was betting that the doctor would try to cover the perceived insult, though in truth Sherlock didn't think it was one. He simply liked to fluster the other man.

"Yes, well, ah. Spider legs are creepy you see. Not like human limbs at all. Human limbs, especially legs, well, long legs are attractive. Some. I mean. Not all humans' legs, long or not, are attractive. I mean, certain people, take you for example, certain aspects... You're not creepy. Well, your legs aren't." He was rambling, stuttering over his words. Finally he sputtered to a stop realizing that he'd just implied that while Sherlock had nice legs he was creepy in other ways. He stood silent for a few moments, just looking a Sherlock, who hadn't moved from his lazy sprawl. "Right then. I'm going to change and make something to eat." He went up to his room.

When he returned he was wearing yet another jumper - the man had to have a collection - and comfortable looking pajama pants. "It's not that cold is it?" He was still on the couch, observing, legs dangling now over the arm rest.

"I'm a bit chilly is all." He shrugged. Slight hitch to the step, tiny wince to the movements. Weather causing aches. Temperature stable in room, no change from usual. Jumper means comfort. He couldn't help but to analyze John as tea was made and food prepared.

"Come on Sherlock, I've made you some as well." John sounded a bit like a mother hen, always trying to get him to eat. Or sleep. Or stop shooting holes in the wall. He smiled inwardly; John was the only person besides maybe his own mum that fussed over him that way. It should irk him he realized, but it had stopped doing so at some time and now he just took it as the genuine concern it was meant as. It didn't mean he was less petulant about it.

When he didn't rise John huffed quietly and brought a plate over. Sherlock took it without sitting up.

"Planning to eat like an otter then?" John watched as Sherlock balance the plate on his chest. "Want me to fetch a stone to crack your dinner open?"

"If I were an otter, my stone would be on hand. They keep them with them in a sort of pouch. Each otter has a special rock that they use each time." He drew a breath and John cut him off.

"Otters? You've taken time to study otters?" There was a glint of laughter in his eyes as he reached to take the plate from Sherlock's chest. His fingers slid under the plate and held slightly longer against his body than was necessary before lifting the food. "Here now, sit up properly so you don't aspirated the little you'll eat." John knew that he'd only pick at the food, yet he made the attempt anyway. Another mother hen moment that made Sherlock's chest ever so slightly tight.

He sat up and took the food back, picking up the fork. "Someone once said I looked a bit like one. I read up." He shrugged. "Don't see it."

"Been told I was a bit like a hedgehog once. Didn't see that either."

"Maybe they were calling you a prick."

John laughed as he went back to his dinner. "No, that's what they usually call you."


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock had eaten sparingly as usual. John tucked the leftovers away, frowning slightly at the unlabeled and unidentifiable somethings he had to shove over in the fridge. He thought about saying something but figured it would be pointless. Maybe even counter productive if the detective decided to up the ante in response. Ah well, nothing had poisoned him yet so he'd tempt fate.

Sherlock was still lying on the couch where John had left him. No longer staring at the spiders, his hands were beneath his chin in his trademark prayer. John wasn't foolish enough to think the man reached for a deity - more likely he was deep within his mind palace. There'd be no rousing him without a tantrum. John brushed his fingertips, gentle as a dandelion fluff, across Sherlock's dark curls and headed to bed.

As he climbed the stairs there was a tremendous boom and the lights extinguished. Bloody storm had knocked the power out. Probably a lightning strike (nearby from the deafening thunder) had knocked a limb into the power lines. There was nothing he could do about it at any rate. He doubted Sherlock would have noticed and he was tired so he made his way by memory to his bed.

He faced away from the window, watching the flickering shadows on the wall as they were cast by the lightning. The ran pattered heavily, whipped into a frenzy by the gusting wind. Momentarily he considered ear plugs, but they were downstairs after Sherlock had gone into another shooting-the-wall phase of boredom. He buried his face under his arm and breathed deeply, counting to a slow six for each inhale and exhale. Eventually he fell asleep.

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He wanted to be perturbed. He was wandering around his palace, examining and recalling, making connections and deletions. But in nearly half the things he wanted to delete - things he felt unnecessary and mundane - there was John. The doctor had commingled with so many trivialities. His laughing blue eyes making gentle fun of Sherlock as he fidgeted through someone's uninteresting prattle. He couldn't delete the boredom without losing that laughing light. His warm hand holding Sherlock back from dashing off yet again on a whim. Sherlock couldn't delete the unneeded moments without losing that warm touch.

He wanted to be upset by this, but a small smile touched the corner of his mouth beneath the pressed palms. The doctor had crawled into nearly every recess of the palace, and in doing so had made Sherlock retain more of his day to day interactions with people. Details that were normally summarily deleted hung around and gave him a deeper, if still subtle, context for working with the people in his daily life. He didn't act any differently towards the others, but he was able to more readily understand some of the things they did.

He prided himself on his high, fast functioning perceptions. He observed, saw, spoke, and more often than not was rewarded with being called names. "Freak." "Arsehole." Even "raging cock womble" once. But when he deduced in front of John, or even deduce John himself, he was rewarded by "brilliant." "Fascinating." Ego stroking words for an ego he had truly tried to ignore, of not outright disown. Another niggling detail he couldn't repress.

His smile grew as he replayed the delicate stroke the doctor had trailed through his hair. A resounding crash and the lights went out. After momentary concern for the experiments in the crisper he determined that there was no need for concern. He continued to lie there, silently smiling to himself as the night wore on and the storm intensified.

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\- Gunshots and heat. A life slipping through his fingers, soaking into cruel sand in a sanguine pool. Wrenching shoulder pain. Howling in rage and frustration. Instead of a brother at arms, the man with the blue/green eyes. Begging to be saved, instead lost in the Afghanistan sunlight. Rifle fire, blood, and a desert. And John was trapped, knowing it was a nightmare but unable to set himself free. And Sherlock died again. And again. And again. -

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A moan distracted Sherlock. Between rumbles of thunder he heard it. Low and piteous.

He was halfway up the stairs before he thought about it. He quietly opened the door to John's room. The doctor was huddled in on himself, shaking beneath the quilt while small pained sounds escaped his lips.

The storm. Strobe effect of lightning affects the brain. Thunder evokes memories of military and gun fire. The shoulder wound, acting up in the change of barometric pressure, putting another subconscious stress on the mind. Posture and vocalizations combined with unconscious external stimuli. Nightmare.

A peculiar pang lanced through his chest. He knew Watson had nightmares in the past, but he'd never been witness to one. He rarely dreamed when he slept - make that collapsed - as an adult and it wasn't something he was particularly familiar with. He knew he should do something. Wake the man up? For some reason he didn't like the idea. John wouldn't want Sherlock to know about what he would call his weakness. So what to do?

When he and Mycroft were young, before animosity and rivalry set them against one another, Sherlock would sometimes seek his older brother's comfort after a bad dream. He'd wake in a terror and slip into Myc's room. He'd stand before the bed until the older boy sensed him and woke enough to lift the edge of the blankets, allowing Sherly to crawl in and curl up against his brother's warmth. With a bittersweet smile, Sherlock laughed internally. It had been a long time indeed since he'd sought his archenemy's protection. Longer still since he'd first been told in no uncertain terms that dreams, like sentiments, are a waste of time and effort that made the brain weak.

Bugger that. In a few short steps he was beside the bed, gripping the corner of the quilt. In moments he had slid in beside the still quaking man. He placed a long-fingered hand on John's shoulder, gently and slowly. The effect was nearly instant as some of the tension drained away and John stopped twitching. Sherlock edged closer, using one arm as a pillow as he lay facing John's back. He made small motions against the pajama clad shoulder, feeling the shift as Watson left the dream behind and relaxed.

He would be gone before John woke. The storm and the dream would be in the past and John would never know what had happened. The bed was comfortable, though not as comfortable as his own. He found himself wishing they were in his room instead. They? He wasn't sure why he'd thought of the two of them in his bed. This was to comfort his flat mate. But flat mates don't get into bed with one another to soothe dreams do they? Flat mates don't watch the other as they smile, laugh, make tea, type, or any of the other hundreds of small motions John made that fascinated Sherlock.

The thoughts buzzed and whirled, making Sherlock tense. The tension vibrated down his arm to the tenuous connection he had with John and the shorter man twitched. New train of thought. He focused instead on breathing, matching his breaths to the man beside him. He went through the normal values table of the Arterial Blood Gas measurements. He mentally recited the abnormal values and indications. And before long he too fell asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

It was still drizzling outside, a steady flow of drops that misted at shin level on the streets. Gauzy morning light filtered in through the curtain and John nuzzled more deeply into his pillow. He was warm, lying on his side with one arm protectively wrapped around

"Sherlock?! Wha? Huh? Wh?" John stumbled across his words, shaken at finding his - _achingly attractive_ \- flat mate in his bed. Reflexively he withdrew his arm, scooting back a few inches as well. The newly missing body heat made his suddenly cold skin twitch in protest, but space was necessary. He propped himself on an elbow and gazed down. Sherlock's irises were nearly colorless in the grey glow as he stared unblinkingly at the ceiling, his dark hair highlighted with strands of auburn. He'd never had truly black hair, John realized in a tangential moment. Rather it was dark mahogany with deeply hidden reddish tones. - _Soft curls he so wanted to comb his fingers through... New thought. -_

"Really John, please try to use the Queen's English." The rebuke held a gentle amusement and John shut his mouth, shaking his head as if to re-set the morning.

"Why are you in my bed?"

"Ah. Much better. Though a boring question to start with." Sherlock turned his head, steady gaze feeling like a cat scan. John was sure his thoughts were printed clearly, in flashing neon, across his face, and he blushed furiously. - _Honestly, may just as well tattoo 'I fancy you' on my forehead._ -

"Boring, maybe, but still pertinent." He closed his eyes in an extended blink, gathering his thoughts and trying to calm the odd, giddy feeling that rattled around in his chest like toddler in a playpen. John wanted nothing more than to have a bit of a lie in, preferably intertwined with his favorite detective, but it was a clinic day and, well, "If you're not going to answer, will you at least let me get up without having to unceremoniously climb over you?" He tried for humor, hoping to distract Holmes from deducing him entirely.

Wordlessly Sherlock rose and slid out of bed, exiting the room without looking back. John crawled over and sat on the edge, so recently vacated he could still feel the warmth the other man had imparted in the blanket. "Right. Well then. Good morning." It wasn't exactly domestic bliss but he was starting the day well chuffed at having begun it with his best friend in such close proximity. - _Neatly done, that. Non-answer designed to throw me off, as per usual. Now the question remains. Why the devil was he in here? And what has he got percolating in that great brain of his?_ -

By the time he'd gotten ready for clinic duties (taking a bit longer than usual) and come down to start tea, Sherlock was gone.

* * *

Sleep didn't usually come easily. His own nightmares were never far off, resembling carrion feeders perched just over the horizon, waiting for his transport to fail in order to pounce on vulnerabilities better hidden in waking hours. He rarely slept more than a few hours; as such he had been awake long before John. He'd been highly tempted to remove himself from the room, but ... - _But that strong causal embrace_ ... - Sherlock told himself he simply didn't wish to wake the good doctor by wriggling out from under his arm. The idea that he was simply too comfortable, too content to remain in such close contact, was hidden away in a drawer in the John Room of his mind palace.

He'd been calm, quietly observing as the former soldier smiled in his sleep, far removed from the terror of the previous night. The startled blend of expressions John had treated him to upon waking would be catalogued, pored over, analyzed. Pure joy, a dash of his "bit-not-good" face, confusion, worry, and - _and what?_ \- For once he was frustrated with himself for not paying more attention to the nuances of human feeling. He recognized that elusive reaction but for the life of him he couldn't name it.

When John had settled on a half mix of bit-not-good and exasperated humor Sherlock had taken his leave. He felt a bit out of sorts. His brain jumped erratically, a thousand ideas colliding and rebounding, and he had to get out, get some air. There were no cases in the offing right now. Watson would be getting ready for clinic duty - _In some bizarrely normal yet off-putting jumper no doubt. Dull. Yet so John, and therefore extraordinary._ \- Every thought came back to John some how. He left the flat, stepping out into the grey London day, coat unfastened and scarf carelessly flung around his neck with none of his customary care. In his haste he forgot that he was wearing slippers instead of shoes.

* * *

He wandered for the better part of the morning. The city ebbed and flowed around him, people brushing past with upturned collars and hands deep in pockets to keep the damp away. He observed, deduced, kept moving. A row broke out at a vendor, and he muttered to the proprietor as he passed, "It's a distraction. She's keeping your attention from her son nicking your keys." He continued walking, the man's loud shouts at the young thief echoing after him.

Blocks later he stood, waiting for a break in traffic, wondering how the young man standing nearby didn't see the signs that his girlfriend was shagging his mate when it was painfully obvious. An unpleasant voice broke into his thoughts.

"Oi, Freak!"

He turned, disdain in his eyes. "Donovan."

"Nice slippers, genius." She glanced pointedly down at his feet, then back up to meet his eyes with a sneer.

"I'd compliment your attire, but as you've worn it at least two days in a row now, I'm sure your latest one-off has already done so. No doubt by saying it would 'look good on his bedroom floor?'" Anger lanced across her face as he spoke. "Oh, do wipe that gormless look off your face. It's becoming your default setting." He kept his voice even, emotionless.

"You insufferable git! At least I can get companionship I don't have to pay for. Oh, wait, you're still a virgin! Or has Johnny-boy taken care of that for you?" Her cheeks were flushed and her hands had balled into quivering fists. He blinked, bemused, at her. Her right shoulder twitched as she fought an obvious urge to punch him. Instead she spun on her heel and stalked off.

He watched her go before changing his own direction and heading back for the flat. Her frequent barbs regarding John made him out of sorts. Angry, but not for himself. John's oft-repeated "I'm not gay" and "we're not together" made Donovan's words far more disrespectful to the doctor than to himself.

Under the anger Sherlock was left confused, and strangely hurt. He knew that at his age virginity was looked upon as something highly odd and even downright wrong, but he'd never really given the matter much consideration. It was another so-called need that he had stripped from himself. The fact that others thought they could use it against him, a self-proclaimed sociopath, was laughable. The part that he tried to ignore was that on some level, he was beginning to have what he was coming to understand were feelings for his companion and the idea that John could be used as a weapon against him was - _terrifying_. -

Donovan's ill attempt to wound had come closer than she could ever know, but for all the wrong reasons. Especially after this morning. Sherlock was having feelings and was also realizing that they were misplaced; John had given conflicting physical signals, but his recurring words were quite clear. It was frustrating on an agonizing level and Sherlock strode towards home faster. He needed to sit, to think, and to sort this out. To define and confine his thoughts about John and to determine just where the other man stood on their current situation. - _And that is, as they say, the bitch of it._ \- He sighed and stepped off the curb, lost in thought and in one of the rarest occurrences of his life, entirely inattentive to his surroundings.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock still wasn't back when he got home. The lights in the flat were all off and there was no sign that he'd been in all day. "Sherlock?" John called, just in case. Simply because he couldn't see any trace of the man didn't mean he wasn't missing something. As the detective was fond of saying, he saw but didn't always observe. So what could he observe...

He wandered around the flat, noticing the shoes left by the door, the mobile on the floor under the couch, the closed laptop on the table, and the silence permeating the place. No coat or scarf evident. Aside from the shoes and mobile, all signs pointed to the man still being out. He hadn't seen his mate's footwear this morning, so it was entirely possible Sherlock had gone out in bare feet; not likely but possible. The mobile had John worried but he had to realize he was dealing with a grown man. A grown man that acted like a thirteen year old girl, but grown nonetheless.

He put the kettle on for after work tea and changed from his trousers and jumper to comfy old joggers and white t-shirt. In his socks he padded back to the kitchen and fixed his cup. It was later than he usually got home. A young mother had brought her toddler in near closing. He'd wanted to turn them away, send them to hospital, but the poor boy was obviously miserable and his mum at the end of her rope. He'd taken them in to a room and after a brief conversation had set the young man on the table to give him the once over. Cursory exam had revealed the problem.

Ten minutes later he'd sent the boy off with a sweetie and his mother with instruction to make sure that green beans got eaten as opposed to hidden up one's nose. It wasn't the strangest thing he'd seen, but he'd looked forward to making Holmes guess what had kept him. Knowing his brilliance it would take him less than two questions and a glance before he figured it. With a sigh he settled down to watch crap evening telly, thanking his lucky stars that tomorrow was Saturday and he wouldn't have to get up in the morning.

He fell asleep waiting for Sherlock to get home.

Sometime in the early morning he woke up cold. He yawned, stretched, and stumbled up to bed, dimly aware that he'd seen no sign of the other man.

When he woke for the day he headed back to the kitchen, fully expecting Sherlock's deep voice to greet him with some form of insult about sleeping the day away. When it didn't happen he finally pulled his mobile from his coat pocket and texted. "Where've you run off to now?" When a familiar chirp sounded behind him he groaned and ran a hand down his face. "Right. Under the couch. Glad he's not here to see that."

He bent and slid the mobile out, noticing several missed calls and texts. He couldn't access them; Sherlock kept his phone locked and John had yet to work out a single one of his passwords. He could, however, see that Lestrade and Mycroft had attempted to get in touch. - _Bugger it. If it was important enough they'd ring me up._ -

John spent the day tidying up and doing the shopping. Mrs. Hudson was coming in the same time he was and they ended up having an early supper. She chuckled at the story of the green beans and recalled how once her sister had laughed so hard during a meal that a spaghetti noodle had come out her nose. "Poor dear was so completely mortified, but of course that made us giggle all the harder. To this day she blushes if I suggest making pasta."

After a pleasant evening he bid Mrs. Hudson goodnight and retired upstairs. It was oddly empty feeling in the flat, as if two days of absence had left the place bereft of more than a mad genius. It was ... _still_ was the best word John could come up with for the feeling. A faint disquiet took up residence in the back of his mind as he dressed for bed and slipped between the sheets. He pondered texting Mycroft, but he brushed the idea away by reminding himself yet again that Sherlock was not only an adult, but dead brilliant as well. All the same a niggling voice kept whispering "brilliant, yes, but also a daft bugger with no sense of self preservation and a recent drug habit..." Sleep was long in coming and fitful at best.

By Sunday afternoon John was in a state. He'd held the same argument with himself a dozen times since he'd woken yet again to an empty flat. Even the smell of those horrid cigarettes would've been welcome as it would be a return to normalcy. Sherlock's mobile had chimed several more times, but John's remained silent. It was tempting to ring Mycroft and find out just what was going on, but each time he went to dial he'd put the phone down again.

Another evening passed and John couldn't have stated what he'd done to pass the time if he'd been tortured for the information.

Even though it was technically against regulation he kept his mobile on him, muted of course, in his pocket on Monday. He checked for a message every spare moment and after a full shift with no word he decided it was time. When he got home he dialed the elder Holmes' number.

"Mycroft? It's John."

"Yes, John. I know. What can I do for you?" As always Mycroft's voice was smooth and posh sounding.

"Right, I know you know. Anyway. Do you know where Sherlock is?" It was hard to keep the concern out of his voice.

"Yes." And that was all he said.

"And?" Frustration welled up into him. "Listen, Mycroft, I don't want to beg or argue with you, just tell me."

"No. It's for your own good."

John nearly growled. "What is it with you barmy bastards keeping things from me? I have a right to decide what's best for me. Where. Is. He?"

There was a pause and a sound that was suspiciously like a sigh before "He's here John." John's eyebrows scrunched together, his "a bit not good" expression turning to "a lot not good" as the British Government continued. "There's been a bit of an ... Accident and I'm afraid it is in Sherlock's best interest to remain here."

Mouth open in shock, it took a few tries before he could muster a response. "An... An accident? When? What? How is he? He's alright, isn't he?"

"Friday. Traffic incident. He's his usual self I'm afraid." It was John's turn to sigh at that, but what he heard next nearly made him drop the phone. "It seems his memory is a bit muddled however. His observational skills and intelligence seem to be intact, as well as his insufferable lack of people skills, but he seems to be having trouble recalling certain aspects."

Confused now, John asked, "Aspects? Aspects like what?"

Now he was sure he heard a sigh. "Aspects like you. He seems to have no idea who you are."

Without another word he rung off and sat staring at the blank telly, trying to figure out just what in the hell he was supposed to do now. An hour later he slapped his hands to his knees, muttered "right then," grabbed his coat, and went downstairs. Unsurprisingly, a sleek black vehicle was waiting for him, Anthea holding the door open even as she typed away at her device.

The drive was silent and John fidgeted nervously, knee bouncing as Anthea's cool gaze noted and texted every move he made to her boss.


	11. Chapter 11

They'd barely pulled to a stop when John jumped out and dashed up the steps and into the home. Mycroft stood near a large open doorway, an odd mix of bemusement and vexation playing across his face. John halted, looking the taller man up and down before nodding his head toward the room they stood outside. "Right, then. In here?" A nod. He stood straighter and walked in, not knowing what he expected.

There, on a love seat, right arm in a cast to the elbow and a large purple bruise decorating the entire side of his face and head, sat Sherlock. A little "oh" of surprise escaped him before he stepped closer. Sherlock rose awkwardly, holding himself stiffly. His piercing eyes took in all of John at a glance and he started for the hall.

"Ready to go home then, are we?" His voice was clipped as his long legs carried him past his brother. "Mycroft." He nodded as he strode past, no other word of thanks or explanation. Like a puppy on a leash, John followed, shooting a confused and suspicious glare as he, too, passed the man still standing at the door.

John practically tumbled back into the car. Sherlock watched fixedly out the window, ignoring both the other occupants. John stared at Sherlock. - _What in the bloody hell is Mycroft playing at? Doesn't recall me, yet jumps up and states we're going home?_ \- Nothing in the detective's face held an answer, and by the time they arrived at the flat John had a headache.

When Sherlock had escaped the vehicle and moved to stand at the steps leading to their door Anthea gripped John's sleeve. "Mycroft says to be careful. His brother is clever and not to be trusted." Shrugging inelegantly John just slid out and went to unlock the door. By the time he'd closed it behind them and gotten up the stairs, Sherlock was sprawled on the couch, hands pressed flat, palms together and index fingers resting against to his lips.

Groaning internally John shrugged out of his jacket and moved across the room. He plucked Sherlock's mobile from his own pocket and placed it on the arm of the couch above the dark curly head. It was late, he was tired, and he knew there'd be no answer forthcoming while his flat mate perused his mind palace. His fingertips slid gently across the other man's hair, lingering oh so briefly before he crept out of the room and up to bed.

The last few days had been exhausting, waiting as he was for the return of the chaotic presence of Holmes. It wasn't much less worrisome now, confused as he was about Sherlock's state of mind, but at least he was in the flat. He wished he didn't have clinic tomorrow; yawning, he contemplated skivving off again. This was, after all, a bit of an emergency. - _but isn't it always when it comes to him?_ -

He lay awake in the dark for a long time, pondering mates, girlfriends, and even a few boyfriends past, trying to decide if any had ever caused him so much concern, given him so much opportunity to throw responsibility to the wind and follow on a whim. There had been one bloke, back when he was around 22, who had been the closest to this. A striking, wild young man with dark hair and lithe build. The two of them had fled from the bobbies after speeding past one on a motorbike. John had clung tightly to his partners waist, adrenaline flowing and his heart pounding. It was a heady mix of thrill, wanton abandon, fear, and desire that he hadn't felt since. Until Sherlock.

His body responded to the memories of that years-past relationship. It responded more as his thoughts slid into memories of the astonishing man he now lived with, had killed for, and would die for. A thousand small glances, all of the new nearness and touching, his quirky smile and rumbled laugh that few truly got to know. The past built up until it started to spill over into fantasy. It would be so wrong to give into his lust now, but the remembered heat from waking up next to that tall, lanky form made him bite his lip.

He closed his eyes tightly, trying to direct his thoughts back to the night of the motorcycle chase. He tried to replay the amazing shag they'd had when they'd finally rounded a tight turn, skidded behind a stand of trees, killed the engine and waited breathlessly to be found out. When the car had passed they'd collapsed into post adrenaline laughter, clinging to one another giddily, until they found themselves locked in a fierce kiss. They'd torn clothes off recklessly, attacking each other's mouths and necks, biting and kissing, until they were entangled in half-shed denim and leather. It had been rough and ferocious, an agonizing pleasure he held sacred, but as he tried to keep his partner in mind, dark eyes became a shifting blue-green, stubbled cheeks became smooth and angular, and the long ago lover turned into Sherlock.

With a soft whimper he flung one forearm over his face, covering his eyes. His other hand slid down his body, into the waistband of his pants as he gave in, as much for stress relief as to get the image of Sherlock naked and writhing out of his brain. His breathing quickened, small pants and minute groans becoming more evident as he stroked his length. His imagination fueled the fire as he allowed himself to dwell on the sight he'd seen weeks ago when he'd walked into the loo and seen a naked and dripping Sherlock fresh from the shower. His curls had straightened, blackened in the water. Thin rivulets trailed over his chest, glittering as they slid down his abdominal muscles and clung to the dark hair of his pubic patch. Now he imagined dropping to his knees and licking the beaded water off of Sherlock's manhood.

It had been as mesmerizing and tantalizing as anything had been, and the short second he'd gotten of the view etched permanently into his mind. His lip was sucked under, legs tensed, back arched, and he came on a quiet moan of "God, Sherlock!" Body sated, he relaxed, arm still covering his eyes, breathing a bit louder and shakier after the orgasm. He wanted Sherlock, wanted him so badly it hurt. Now with the supposedly missing memory of John's identity he wondered if it was ever going to be possible to be allowed his small comforts in touching his flat mate or if he'd be starting over.

\- _Starting over wouldn't be so bad. At least this time I'd know I love him and not waste do much time pretending I don't..._ \- Heart rate finally slowing and a fuzzy edge of sleep creeping across his mind he used a dirty tshirt to clean himself off a bit. - _I'll have to do the washing myself._ \- A small, pleased smile edged his lips. - _Ah well, not like the git would do my, rather_ any _, wash anyway. No need to fret._ \- Dropping the now stained shirt to the floor he curled under his blankets. His last conscious thought was - _Huh. I thought I'd closed that door._ -

••• – – – •••

He'd never encountered this before. There had always been complete freedom within his own mind. Now there wasn't. He'd been trying for days to figure it out. Suddenly there were doors in his mind palace. Not only doors, but doors he couldn't open! An observer would think he was deep into REM sleep with his eyes open had they seen him as he rapidly scanned his thoughts.

His hands moved rapidly and erratically for a few moments. - _ASL, BSL, lock picking retained._ \- a few more movements, a little slower, a little more deliberate, with an accompanying chin bob. - _Violin, intact._ \- His lips moved silently as he continued to catalogue. - _French, German, Latin, English. Still there._ \- But every time he tried to find a person he was met with a distorted funhouse mirror version with little resemblance to the subject in question.

John for example. He had led to numerous locked doors and a hundred wonky images. Rewinding back to before the accident he retraced his steps. He'd encountered... here was a blurry image, and the word "freak." On the way home he'd been distracted by ... another glitched form and a rather hideous jumper. There'd been a collision - a lorry had come round the bend. Low speed, hence the bruising and broken ribs and arm rather than massive internal bleeding. He'd wandered away before the stunned driver could even step down to the street.

He didn't know how long he'd continued to walk. Eventually a sleek black car containing an equally sleek secretarial type with a mobile eased to the curb beside him. "Your brother requests your presence." Without thought he slid into the seat, knee touching hers. When they'd gotten to the large estate he was led into a great room containing a massive and heavy antique desk. Behind it sat a stiff looking man who flinched, albeit infinitesimally, when Sherlock arrived. The brother Sherlock figured. _His_ brother.

The man launched into a mini diatribe about watching where one was going and not scaring the life and wits out of lorry drivers. It was long winded and Sherlock mostly ignored it in favor of studying the room. When tirade was finished the man stood and walked round the desk coming to an abrupt halt in front of Sherlock. Quiet worry slipped through his eyes as he spoke. "You're really hurt aren't you?" He strode from the room and called for "Anthea? Sherlock's in need of medical attention. See if you can fetch a doctor? Not John!" - _Older brother judging from tone, exasperation level and artfully concealed according to the post on the edge of the desk. Secretary type is Anthea. No other woman evident, obviously she is trusted, must be the same as woman in the car. Who is John?_ -

"Really Mycroft. Don't make a fuss" he spoke aloud. The elder Holmes had given him a withering glare and lead him to another room. It shrieked familiarity, an instant comfort on some level, but he refrained from thanking Mycroft and simply lay down, finally feeling the pain of his injuries. Their relationship seemed adversarial given the information at hand and he didn't want to admit that he was muddling through their interactions without a clue as to who anyone was.

Within another hour his ribs had been bandaged, arm set and casted, and a mild pain reliever ingested. Mycroft had insisted the doctor refrain from giving him anything stronger; the hushed tones and disapproving look adopted by the physician told of a drug habit that they were trying to avoid rekindling. The movements made by the man bandaging him had brought flickers of a memory. A warm touch, a calm hand taping gauze to his side. He could see the still healing wound.

By Sunday he was stir crazy. His brain felt itchy and his arm was an annoyance he was tempted to just saw off. He kept his interactions with his brother to a minimum and when no alarm was raised he knew he had the gist of it. He paced the estate endlessly, pausing every now and then to listen when he heard his brother speaking. Mostly dull 'save the queen, save the country' type things; hardly interesting. But he paused outside the door and listened in earnest when he heard Mycroft say his name.

"Sherlock's all right Detective. Broken arm, ribs. Lots of bruising. He's fine. ... Fine. He will be fine. ... No, John doesn't know. Sherlock has not inquired. ... Strange? How do you mean? ... 'Attached at the hip?' ... Oh. Well, obviously you are wrong if he hasn't even mentioned John. ... I don't suppose I would. ... No, I don't suppose you should ring him up. ... Exactly. I'm glad we understand each other. Good day inspector."

Sherlock loped down the hall. - _John again. And an inspector. 'Attached at the hip' and its passing odd that I've not mentioned him. Hmm._ \- but all his endeavors yielded less than helpful results as he recalled only hazy images and faceless people.

Monday evening a sandy blonde man, disheveled, and harried looking had arrived. Based on what he'd been able to hear from Mycroft's side of the conversation on his mobile earlier, this was John, and Mycroft had figured out that Sherlock didn't remember him. The genuine concern in John's blue-hazel eyes made Sherlock's breath stutter momentarily as he rose from the couch. "Ready to go home then, are we?" He barely acknowledged his brother, a cursory "Mycroft" as he walked past.

By the time they'd arrived he'd deduced that this was indeed John, the doctor, former army doctor and his flat mate. He also saw the worry, devotion, and desire that were plain in the way the man watched him. It also seemed as though he'd really like to reach out and touch him but held himself in careful check. Sherlock had flung himself onto the couch, adopted his thinking pose and tried to sort John from his newly complicated sanctuary. He ran through the knowns - language skills, dexterity, et cetera - and had found nothing lacking. It was just the people that remained ambiguous.

Snapping upright he decided to go talk to John. To try to get him back without tipping his hand and admitting he had no answers. He knew where John's room was and it irked him to realize he knew this when he didn't know who he was going to see. Silently he opened the door and froze. He stood, staring at the scene in front of him, recognizing immediately what was going on. He knew he should turn and leave, give the doctor some privacy, but he didn't. The soft sounds, head tipped back, hidden eyes and the unmistakable movement beneath the sheet captivated him.

When John moaned his name as he reached release Sherlock turned and slunk away, breathless himself.


	12. Chapter 12

\- _So what are the factors. Unknown: relationship status regarding John. Known: he has feelings for me. Unknown: what type of feelings? Known: protectiveness, patience, kindness. Unknown: love? Verdict: most likely at least some level of emotion beyond fraternal. Known: sexual attraction at least._ \- Had he a mirror, he'd note that he blushed faintly at the intense visual of John's body the last thought had conjured. - _Unknown: was it reciprocated in the past? Unknown: is it reciprocated now? -_

He tried the locked doors of his mind palace again, wanting to know what he was hiding from himself. It was to no avail. - _Bollocks. Known: Mycroft wanted to keep John out of things. Therefore Mycroft knows about the nature of our relationship and disapproves. Unknown: why?_ \- A headache was starting behind his eyes. He was getting nowhere. - _So where does this leave me? Confused, definitely. So what do I want? Besides complete access to my own stubborn brain._ -

Fingers were pressed to his lips, damnable casted arm held askew. He kept his eyes closed, replaying the scene in John's room. The blush intensified, finally garnering his attention. It wasn't that he was squeamish about sex. Rather it was that he was fully aware of that portion of his past and it was a complete blank. With certainty he knew he was inexperienced, a thirty-something virgin. It caused him no discomfort; it was simply a known fact. - _So why blush?_ \- Because a small part of him had really wanted to respond to John's arousal. He hadn't because... - _I don't know. Need to acquire more data._ -

He rose, ignoring the twinges from his myriad of bruises. Snatching the laptop from the kitchen table he settled into his chair and opened it up. - _Password protected. Bloody hell._ \- Friday this would have taken moments, the built up knowledge supplying insight into the doctor's selection. Now... Well. There was so little to go on. He stood again, slipping John's mobile from the pocket of the coat he'd left hung up.

It danced between his slender fingers as he examined it. - _New. Replacement for much older model. New features, accessory capabilities, all unused. Clearly a recent purchase, plastic still clinging to battery case. Former mobile was older, more durable, less fancy. Purchased this one because on special with call plan. Soon to be phased out, but good for what he needs._ \- Sherlock scrolled through the contact list. Greg, Mike, Dr. Sarah, Sherlock :), Mycroft, Clinic... There were more, but only his name had an emoticon. He touched the screen and the tiny picture of himself as the caller icon expanded. It was a candid shot, taken in the flat. In the photo Sherlock stood in front of the window, late evening sunlight streaming around him as he played his violin. His hair was a dark halo of curls, face turned into the light making his irises translucent and his skin glow. His jaw was set, arms taut. It was a striking picture and Sherlock was amazed to see himself that way.

With an almost audible click he felt a barrier drop within him. He remembered that day. He'd been playing in an effort to stave off boredom. There'd been no new case for a week; his skin itched and his nervous system felt like every fiber of his being was chewing aluminum foil. The nicotine patches hadn't soothed the desperate need for activity. John had handed him the violin, told him to at least do something non-destructive with that pent up energy and to stop being a prat. Sherlock smiled. - _Add fond annoyance to the list of known feelings of Doctor John Watson. So I played, and he snuck a picture._ -

The text icon beckoned to him and he didn't hesitate before opening the folder.

To Sherlock: I'm off to work, yeah? Want me to bring home takeaway? - Friday, Sent

To Sherlock: Coming home soon? Got an amusing story you'll likely know the entirety of before I start talking. - Friday, Sent

To Mycroft: where is he you arrogant sod? - Saturday, draft

To Mycroft: I know you think caring is a disadvantage, but surely you'd care your brother is missing? - Sunday, draft

To Sherlock: come home? I miss you, you remarkable - Sunday, draft

To Mycroft: Where. Is. Sherlock. - Monday, sent

To Sherlock: I lo - Monday, draft

The timeline put the last draft abandoned about when John would be leaving to come get him. His ribs throbbed. Pain mixed with an unfamiliar pressure that those three little letters stirred in him. - _Really, could be anything. Looked. Loathe. Lost. Hundreds of choices he may have been texting. It doesn't have to be ... But context, mixed with all of the recent inferences interaction make it more than likely._ \- On a whim he texted one of John's contacts, not caring that it was past ten and that she would probably be annoyed at John.

Then he grabbed his own mobile from the arm of the couch where John had put it as he'd run his fingers through Sherlock's hair. Doubtless he thought it would go unnoticed, but he forgot that Sherlock is still acutely aware of his own body, even if he neglects it the majority of the time. Focused as he was on remembering Watson in particular, that small contact had felt familiar, allowable, though he knew himself to dislike being touched. - _One more tally in the 'known' line._ -

His own text back log was primarily useless.

To John: Bored. - Thursday, sent

To John: Did you move the skull again? He's two degrees off. - Thursday, sent

To Lestrade: A four, maximum. I don't even have to leave the flat to tell you to look for the original owner of the cat and you'll catch your murderer. - Thursday, sent

To John: Did Lestrade message you to make me pick up his call? - Thursday, sent.

Here were the missed texts from John; his mobile had been here while he was at Mycroft's. Even as he held it, a new message appeared.

From The Enemy: Caring is a disadvantage. You have the chance to let it go, to become invincible again. - MH

Mycroft. Bastard. Contact listed under The Enemy. Of course.

To The Enemy: I can't let it go if I don't know what it is. - Monday, sent.

From The Enemy: You sit there, going through his items like always, and you tell me you don't know what I'm talking about. Maybe you do have brain damage, brother mine. MH

Head snapping up, Sherlock glared at the skull on the mantle. He'd noticed it'd been moved, he'd said so himself. So why didn't he think to check for anything else? Another internal sound like a latch opening and he remembered that his brother often put surveillance in the flat. Nominally to make sure Sherlock didn't do anything too self-injurious, but more importantly to Mycroft, to be able to keep complete tabs on things. He found the tiny device and smashed it.

A moment later. From The Enemy: Destroying the camera won't help. I can still see that you're trying to figure out where you stand with your pet. Let him go. His devotion is strong, but he'll get the point if you keep treating him like you do everyone else. -MH

To The Enemy: He's. Not. A. Pet. Bugger off Mycroft. - Monday, sent.

\- _Known: Mycroft is insufferable. He inadvertently gave me some insight into this however asinine his demand to let John go may be. Surmised: Mycroft knows John has feelings. Mycroft doesn't understand human feelings. Devotion may mean exactly that, or it could mean more than that. Known: at some point I have started treating John differently than the rest, though not in a bad way or he'd have gone by now._ \- He left his mobile on the table near the open, but still inaccessible laptop. He kept John's in his pocket after making a few small adjustments.

After hours had passed, his thoughts still careening like bumper cars, he silently crept in and set it on John's nightstand.

After he'd gone, the darkness of the room lit faintly with a new text.

From Mycroft Holmes: I've set him on the path back to you. You're welcome. -MH


	13. Chapter 13

John stretched languidly, feeling his vertebrae click and his shoulders loosen. He'd slept through the night, though not well. He could half remember fragments of dreams, and could almost swear Sherlock had been in the room. The thought ghosted a smile across his face. He rolled over, first noticing his mobile on the bedside table. - _So he_ was _in here. Oh bollocks; is that the time?_! - It was half nine and he'd been due in clinic an hour ago.

He took the shortest shower of his life, spending the frigid minutes lamenting Sherlock and his bloody sense of humor for turning his alarm off. He nicked himself twice shaving, misaligned the buttons on his dress shirt and had his jumper inside out by the time he fled to the living room. He stumbled to the door, sliding into a coat and turning to exit.

"John, don't you want some breakfast?" The lilting question came from the couch.

"No, dammit. Haven't the bloody time." John swore he heard a deep bass chuckle as he took the stairs with the grace and speed of a bag of marbles.

He was halfway down the street, walking quickly, head down, still muttering to himself about his daft git of a flat mate when he felt the vibration of his phone. It took three tries of getting his hand into the pocket of the coat and failing before he stopped mid stride and looked down. It was no wonder he couldn't slip easily into his pocket. Muscle memory would fail as this wasn't even his coat. In his haste he'd grabbed Sherlock's long grey wool. He let his head hang in frustration and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. John fished the mobile out of the pocket, recognizing it as belonging to the detective as well.

From The Better Half: Coming back then? - SH

Slowly he smiled, feeling the tautness of the shoulders of a coat built for a tall and slender man, smelling that decadent shampoo the younger man insisted on, and looking at the name he was saved as in the phone. It was such a silly thing, but seeing himself designated as anything other than a formal "Dr. Watson" gave him a constricting feeling beneath his ribs. With another sigh he turned back towards their home.

Again he paused, looking up to the windows of the flat. Sherlock stood, grinning, behind the glass. John wanted to scowl, but it was such an earnest expression, a true emotion from a usually unemotional man, that John just smiled back and went in.

"Beautiful John. Exactly as expected." Sherlock was back on the couch, slender legs over the back and head hanging above the floor.

The constricting feeling from earlier was back suddenly but now it was tinged with needles of ice. The warmth he'd been feeling was extinguished and now he did scowl.

"You made me late on purpose as an experiment? What is Sarah going to say? I can't just waltz in late with you as an excuse. What the hell were you thinking?" His words were a harsh torrent, lashing at the other man for turning him into a test. Even as he spoke he realized he'd forgive Sherlock though. He always did. "Right." He took a deep breath which he let out in a huff as his anger subsided. "I'm off to get my things and then to a job that I hopefully still have."

When he came downstairs he held his mobile, looking at it oddly. "D'j'ou text Sarah?" The upside down detective nodded. "At nearly eleven at night?"

"Oh, do stop asking questions you know the answers for already." His head bobbed as he spoke, dark curls tracing patterns on the carpet. John found himself momentarily distracted.

"Why?" He was befuddled, off kilter. "I mean, why text Sarah?" The message had been deleted from his drafts - _And doesn't that open a can of worms! Sherlock's seen my unsent texts_. - All John had seen was "From Sarah: That's fine. Call me when you get back Sunday." And, perhaps more earth shattering, the text from Mycroft that read "I've set him on the path back to you. You're welcome. MH" - _Bloody Homlses. Right barmy bastards the both of them._ -

"Better question, though I almost had to tell you to do be specific in your inquiries."

The tone suggested pride, though John thought it was more like that of a master telling his pooch "good boy" after successful completion of a trick. - _Good boy. Shake! Roll over! Heel! But after all, don't I always trail after the sod like an obedient puppy? May as well leash me to him the way I come when he calls._ \- Adopting a poor attempt at Sherlock's usual scorn John hissed, "Oh, _do_ stop avoiding questions just because you don't like the answer."

He turned to head back to his room, giving up on the mad man he lived with.

"John?" A soft thump, the swish of material, and when he turned back Sherlock was standing significantly closer.

He had to swallow a few times as he gazed up at the taller man coming nearer him. His voice was a husky croak and he mentally kicked himself. "Y-yes?"

Sherlock's slender hands reached out, fingertips brushing along John's chest, featherlight but making more and more contact as he trailed upward. By the time he reached John's shoulders his palms were flat against him under the grey wool, one side held awkward and scratchy in the cast. John's heart was beating a strange and broken morse code. He was frozen, held in place by the man he'd give anything and everything, if only he'd accept it. A tiny frown etched the elegant brow and Sherlock practically whispered, "That's still my coat."

Synapses finally began firing again, making John blink in confusion. He'd been captivated by that expressive mouth from far too close. Sherlock lifted his hands and John stepped slightly forward at an angle to slip from the garment. "Right. Sorry." He bolted.

••• – – – •••

After John had disappeared into his room, Sherlock clutched the wool to his chest, inhaling. His own scent was intertwined with the doctor's now and he catalogued it, filing it away for later. It was an intriguing blend that made him feel protective and happy, confused and scared. Shampoo, gunpowder, wool, yes, but now also tea, aftershave, and just simply John.

He knew now that John had feelings for him. The wildly vacillating emotions he displayed, the dilated eyes, fixated gazes, and increased heart rate all told Sherlock a story. Add in Mycroft's attempt to persuade him to let the doctor go, and it pointed to one conclusion, however improbable it was. Sherlock sighed and strode toward the loo.

Standing in front of the mirror he leaned forward and stared at himself, left fingers resting at the pulse in his throat, right arm braced on the sink. How long he stood there, as he waited for himself to return to a baseline state, he couldn't say. He remained still, silent. When he was satisfied that his eyes, heart, skin color, respirations, and all that had settled into normal he began reciting things in his head.

No changes noted as he went through the periodic table, mathematical formulae, language. He thought of the flat, the skull, his experiments. Nothing. He had few people that he fully remembered, but he catalogued them as well. Nothing. Then he thought of John. The look of relief he'd had when he had entered the room at Mycroft's. The way he half smiled, the way he smelled mixed with Sherlock's own scent. The way he'd stroked Sherlock's hair as he passed... He drifted through every interaction of the last day, every text, draft, sight, and word.

"Going to be long?"

Sherlock startled, slipping forward and thunking his forehead on the mirror. He cursed as the older man chuckled. He glanced rapidly in the mirror. His irises were thin rings, color high, pulse visible. - _Skewed data. Could be from the slip, could be from ... Yes. Well, inconclusive._ \- He ignored the fact that his laser focus was distracted, that he was lost in thoughts of John to the point he'd lost concentration on his experiment and let the doctor essentially sneak up on him. He watched the army doctor through the mirror. John was relaxed, arms crossed over his chest, shoulder pressed into the doorframe as he leaned, and the corners of his mouth still quirked upwards. His eyes shone with humor.

A hundred retorts, barbs, and vicious words swirled through Sherlock, but he refrained. He wanted John to stay happy with him so he turned around, leaning his butt against the sink, and simply stated, "Experiment. Over now. Unreliable results."

"Ah, well. If this round of testing is complete then, mind budging out?" John righted himself and took a step into the small room. John kept his gaze steady on Sherlock's face and Sherlock swallowed once before nodding. He edged around John, brushing the doctor's bare arm as he passed. He noted the goose flesh the contact caused and then he was out the door.

Once again he lay on the couch, upright this time as the last maneuver had stressed his ribs. He added new parameters to his next attempt. The idea of touch and how he thought about it needed to be worked in. Of everything he knew of himself, he knew he didn't like physical contact. He liked getting his hands dirty; things didn't repel him. People did. He avoided touching live people whenever possible, unless necessary to play a role or gather information and he certainly didn't enjoy those moments. So why did he feel an odd affinity toward touching John? He sighed and waited for John to come out of the loo. He'd no doubt ask what Sherlock had planned for the week since he'd gone to the trouble of telling Sarah John wouldn't be back until Monday and it was only Tuesday now.

He waited, palms pressed, fingers hiding his lips.

"Right. So what's on for the week since I'm apparently off?" John popped into the room. Sherlock's hands hid his smile.


	14. Chapter 14

By Friday John was being driven out of his skull by Sherlock's sudden and frequent bouts of what John could only classify as some new form of madness. The detective would be still for hours, manic the next moment, bored and pacing the next, and suddenly he would just... Just stop and stare at John.

Whether he was reading, making tea, typing away at the blog, or any other mundane activity, he'd suddenly feel the intense gaze, or a strange presence and look up. The first few times he'd been startled. Sherlock had been pacing the flat early on Wednesday, muttering and gesticulating with his broken arm. John had been sitting in his chair, idly surfing the American news and reading up on California's newest in a line of spectacular crime solvers - this one appeared to have been labeled psychic. John looked at the color image of a younger, good looking guy with dark hair and his companion, an equally young and fashionably bald black man, labeled his "sidekick". John smiled slightly. He was willing to bet the "psychic" relied on the same eidetic memory and hyperawareness that gave his own companion his abilities. He said a silent prayer for the sidekick, hoping Mr. Spencer wasn't nearly as big a pain in the arse as Mr. Holmes. - _Or rather Misters Holmes... The big one's a git too.-_

The sound of that long stride, and what John thought of as "distressed detective" noises had stopped. He looked up, turning to see if Sherlock was alright. His laptop slid from its perch and an unmanly yip escaped him as he was suddenly almost nose to nose with the man in question. Sherlock had anticipated the laptop it seems, because he caught it and placed it on the floor without so much as flicking a glance to it. He was leaning, an awkward half crouch, putting himself at John's exact level. His blue-green eyes were focused, staring intently into John's face as if he could read the doctor's thoughts like they were printed in the back of his skull. John, for his part, tried to recover from the startle and licked his lips, noticed that Sherlock mimicked him and found himself staring at Sherlock's mouth again.

A low hum, a "happy detective" sound, vibrated from Sherlock. John wanted so badly to press his ear to his chest and hear the sound reverberate through them both, that human purr. He closed his eyes. When he opened them he expected Sherlock to have risen and gone back to pacing. He hadn't - he was still folded strangely in on himself against the red material of the chair. His eyes scanned John's face and that deep rumble sounded again. Sherlock rolled his lower lip under his top teeth, letting it unfurl slowly, the red tinge from the pressure accenting it sensuously and John had to fight every urge his body had ever given. Before he could tear his gaze away and stammer a thought, Sherlock had gotten up and flopped onto the couch. In moments he was settled into his thought palace and John left the room to splash cold water across his face.

Hours later he had been making himself a cheese sandwich for lunch and had gotten an odd sense. When he'd looked up he found Sherlock staring so fixedly at him he squirmed. "Want one?" He held up half of it and waited for the usual detrimental comment about food being dull. Instead Sherlock shook his head gently, sending his curly and past-due-for-a-trim hair bouncing. John knew how soft it was from his few liberties he'd been allowed and his fingers flexed in memory. He knew how it smelled too, and found himself wishing he could bury himself in Sherlock's neck and inhale. Sherlock just watched him for a few more seconds and then went back into thought.

There were other moments, each unexpected and filled with a tension John would have labeled emotional had it been anyone but Sherlock. He went to bed Friday wondering if they'd ever go back to their normal lunacy and wishing Sherlock would remember more bloody people, if only to get Sherlock back on _a_ case and off of _his_ case. He felt like he was a part of some grand experiment being performed by the genius and he couldn't quite puzzle it out. He kept being caught off guard by his flat mate. He'd find himself studying the man as much as he was being studied.

He was gone on the man. Lord love a duck, but he was gone. He sighed to himself as he slipped into the sheets. He had been frustrated by, maddened by, mad at, and completely enthralled with Sherlock from the start. And now, as he spent the week rebuilding their relationship without the past, enduring the stares and exclamations, he realized he wouldn't have it any other way... - _Well, with a bit more contact than the few recently allowed... If Sherlock ever allows it again full advantage will be taken._ -

He rolled on his side, facing the wall, and fell asleep, thinking about enigmatic eyes, pale skin, and long limbs.

\- ... .. ... / .. ... / - -.- / ... .- .- -. / ... - -. -.

By Wednesday morning Sherlock was electrifyingly and agonizingly vexed. He'd yet to come up with a way to fit contact into his investigation. He decided to keep pursuing the physical changes he could observe in John. The doctor spent most of the morning typing an old case onto the blog. When he'd moved on to American news - _Daft Californian will get himself killed if he keeps pretending to be psychic._ \- Sherlock took the opportunity to get close.

He observed John's every movement from inches away, watching the way he responded. When John licked his lips, Sherlock copied, noting with some pleasure that John seemed to completely lose track of his thoughts instantly. He saw the way John responded to his rumble of pleasure; he repeated the sound just to make him happy. When he bit his lip he thought John would short circuit. Every effect was filed away and when he finally settled back to the couch he immediately launched himself into the room he was now constructing for John. He knew there had to be one in there already, but damned if he could get to it, so he erected a new room.

He wandered it endlessly, examining every reaction he elicited from one Dr. Watson. He realized that he could tell exactly what emotion the doctor was feeling based on his facial expression, or simply the way he held himself. He knew that John was fascinated by his hair and his lips, knew that his laugh and the small humming noises he made when he was pleased made John absolutely come undone. He knew the "bit not good" look and the "for the love of Christ, Sherlock" look, the "I'm the doctor, you're an idiot" look. Most of a week and he felt he knew John's every feeling now. And John definitely felt love for Sherlock. Sherlock on the other hand... - _Well, there's not enough data for that yet is there_. - He'd all but abandoned his experiment on himself after the first attempt.

Midnight Friday and Sherlock finally had a plan. He still wasn't sure of his feelings, but he was sure of John's. And he was sure that seeing John happy made him pleased. And he was damn sure that there wasn't another person on the planet that he cared whether or not they were content. He finally knew what would make John happy, and it would finally help him determine his own standing.

He quietly opened John's door, avoiding the squeaky floor board, and stood watching. John was curled loosely on his side, breath slow and even. Sherlock smiled to himself. That inaudible click, and he remembered the last time he stood like this. John's nightmare. The comfortable closeness they'd shared. It was coming back, slowly.

A moment later and he'd lifted the blanket, tucking himself into John's bed, lying on his side to face the shorter man and stretching his arm out to rest his head on. He smiled again as the doctor shifted, rolling over and sighing softly. Sherlock tentatively reached out and slid an arm over the doctor's ribs. John's expressive face settled into contentment as the weight of the arm settled. A wave of clarity swept over Sherlock and his lips parted as he understood. A deep contentment filled him and he lay there for hours, just watching John breathe.

Notes:

I apologize. I love having subscribers, and I thrive on comments, but I'm losing the battle and I don't know where I'm going. Thank you though.


	15. Chapter 15

Once again John found himself in the position of waking up unexpectedly and inexplicably sharing his bed with Sherlock Bloody Holmes. He'd come awake gradually, reveling in warmth and a good night's sleep for the first time in a while. For a few heartbeats he was elated, reveling in the weight of the cuddled body against his. A breath later and he fell from the heights into resignation. Thin light trickled through the window, early morning rays picking out threads of copper and auburn in the curls of the man nestled into John's side. Sometime during the night John had shifted to his back and the detective had nuzzled in, John's arm around him in a protective gesture, Sherlock's head resting in the crook of his shoulder. Sherlock's arm was resting across the flat of John's belly, long fingers curled against his hip.

John sighed inwardly. As much as he enjoyed this, he knew it was a form of taking advantage if he left Sherlock where he was. He got the impression Sherlock had been spending this past week trying to piece together the past and unlock his memories. It stung slightly, being used as an experiment, but at the same time he was used to it. Though he'd be hard pressed to admit it, and would most like deny it vehemently, he knew what the younger man meant to him. It'd taken years, and a thousand small moments, but eventually John gave in and realized that even if it was never reciprocated, he was in love. - _And when you love someone, you can't take advantage._ -

Still though, he allowed himself a few more moments of closeness, of feeling the steady breathing against him, of the smooth skin and taut muscle beneath the thin tshirt. Finally, resignedly, he spoke softly. "Sherlock?" The curly head shifted slightly, the arm tightening in a fleeting embrace. John tried again, "Sherlock?" Sleepy Detective noises emanated from him, a low rumble that thrummed through John's ribs. His body was starting to betray him as his senses soaked in every mote of contact, every decibel of sound. The unbidden blood rush to certain traitorous parts made him panic and he sat upright, jarring Sherlock from his side. He was scrambling out at the foot of the bed, body held awkwardly, before Sherlock had time to blink the sleep from his eyes.

His heart drummed a desperate staccato and he stumbled into the shower, cranking the knobs to full and standing beneath a stinging spray. - _bollocks bollocks bollocks. Thank god he was actually asleep!_ \- John's face burned, embarrassed for his body's reaction. He'd been content, enjoying the closeness he'd practically given up on ever being allowed. Even knowing that he was being terribly selfish, taking advantage, he had still committed every detail to heart. He wished he had a fraction of Sherlock's brilliance at remembering because he never wanted to forget a millisecond of those few minutes. - _The minutes before my body started hating me!_ \- John gritted his teeth and groaned. It was one thing to have inappropriate thoughts when he was alone. It was quite another when the object of those thoughts was wrapped around his waist and filling his nostrils with the scent of poncy shampoo.

His anger at himself didn't dissipate the offending reaction however. And that damn shampoo was right there... And he was so frustrated... John reached for the bottle, opening it and squeezing it upright to make the scent pour forth. He'd never use it, knowing that was a line never to be crossed, but he could sure enjoy the scent illicitly. He set it back in its place, reaching instead for his own three-in-one bachelor special. The lather slid over his skin, his hand coasting over himself in a whisper of the touch he wished he felt. His eyes slipped closed and he let the water beat along his body as he fell into a fantasy that started with that light touch on his hip and ended with a beautiful expanse of alabaster body writhing and panting before him.

When he finally got out of the shower he'd made a decision. He had to get out of the flat. Not just for his sanity, but for Sherlock's as well. The man was trying too hard, getting too engrossed in one aspect of the memory loss, at the expense of everything else. Fortunately Sherlock was no longer in his room when he'd emerged from the loo. He texted Lestrade, asking him to come by with a case; something, anything, to distract Sherlock. He'd even gone so far as to suggest bringing Donovan or Anderson along. Lestrade had asked a few questions, centering around what had happened between the two of them - "Nothing, we're not a couple, he's a grown man and can take care of himself." - and had Sherlock gotten his mind back yet - "No, and that's the crux of it isn't it." -

He didn't know where he was going, but he threw a few changes of clothes, laptop, and chargers into an old rucksack and exited the flat, grateful that Sherlock seemed to have ensconced himself in his own room and thus wasn't around to witness John's flight. It was too much. Mycroft had meddled and messed something up - what else could that "I've set him on the path back to you" have meant. Sherlock had misinterpreted something and in his quest to regain his memory he had filed it away incorrectly. He was the first to profess he had no idea when it came to emotions after all... It was the only logical conclusion John could muster. Coupled with his own desires and the overwhelming feelings of guilt it was nearly soul crushing.

He needed a few days away. He needed a place to go - _To hide, if I'm being honest_ \- that Sherlock wouldn't immediately deduce. - _Though what's the likelihood of that now?_ \- He wandered about for a bit before an idea struck him and he strode off with a new purpose.

... -.-. .-. . .- - .. -. -. / .. -. - - / - ... . / -.. .. -. .. - .- .-.. / .- -... -.- ... ... / .- -. .- .. -.

He'd felt the instant John had woken. He rarely slept unless forced by overwhelming exhaustion or John's insistence. With that much contact, that lack of even a minuscule space between them, it would have been impossible to miss, even for one without his considerable observational skills. He felt the exact moment the slow rhythm of sleep shifted to a shallower waking pattern. Light tension filled the smaller man's body as muscles woke up, the slackness of sleep replaced with the ever-readiness of a soldier, each sensory system coming online.

Sherlock lay on his stomach, ear pressed to John's ribs beneath his shoulder, face turned so his gaze peered over John's chest. The beat of the strong heart told him a story that the doctor never spoke. "Sherlock?" Prayer-like and full of gentle emotion, of comfort, of John. He flexed the fingers of the hand slung haphazardly across John's midsection. He heard the minute stutter of breath hitching as he feathered his fingertips along the concavity of the hip bone as it arched downward. "Sherlock?" A faint quaver tickled the edges of the voice. A small sound passed his lips before thought could catch it. He tucked his head into the warm presence, uncharacteristic embarrassment thrilling through him.

He strained to keep his body relaxed and sleep like, but suddenly he found himself flung away as John leapt from the bed. Sherlock fell to the mattress, leaning into the divot of warmth left by the confounding person that had just leapt up like his arse was ablaze. The shower started and he rolled to his back, tucking John's pillow beneath his head and staring at the ceiling, trying to put his thoughts in order. Of course he'd noticed the ... state ... that John was in, but he was a grown adult, well familiar with the propensities of the male body. - _Surely it wasn't that that drove him out. Was it because I was here?_ -

Deep in thought he climbed from John's bed and traipsed to his own room. His own bland room, with nothing of note on the walls, and no homey touches. No soul. No John.

John didn't return that night.

Or the next day.

To The Other Half: Bored. - SH

To The Other Half: Bored. - SH

To The Other Half: Cataloging fibers under the sofa. Too dark, borrowed your lighter. - SH

To The Other Half: Sofa on fire. - SH

To The Other Half: You didn't come home. Sofa fire contained. - SH

To The Other Half: George brought files. Boring. He says you told him to do it. - SH

To The Other Half: You told him to bring her? Mission accomplished. I remember her. I dislike her. She knows it. Asked after you, what should I tell her? - SH

To The Other Half: Told her you were taking a walking tour of Scotland. She didn't believe me. - SH

To The Other Half: BORED - it's been four days. Where are you? - SH

To The Other Half: I am not myself without you. I don't know all of who I am yet, but I know this is not it when you are not here. - SH Tuesday, draft

To The Other Half: I miss you. - SH Tuesday, draft

To The Other Half: Mrs. Hudson doesn't buy the tour story either. She thinks we've had a row. - SH

To The Other Half: This is getting ridiculous John. Come back. - SH Thursday, draft

He paced around the flat for the thousandth time. Donovan and Lestrade had been by again. He'd dismissed their fretting and their jibes, telling them whatever story he could to explain John's absence. Mrs. Hudson was harder to diffuse, her muttering about "her boys" obvious whenever she encountered Sherlock. He'd remembered her almost instantly. Donovan had taken a few moments, but she called him "Freak" and he recalled their last encounter, before the accident. He'd tossed a few verbal slights at her, inquiring about the state of her knees, and she'd left in a huff. The exasperated DI had trailed after and it had taken another day and some internet research before he was fully unlocked.

But John was still a paint by number that was missing it's labels. The picture was there, readable, but the details were blurred, indistinct. No response to any texts. No message. Mycroft didn't call or stop by. It was maddening. He was so bored he could scream and his injuries still prevented him from leaving the flat for any appreciable amount of time. Yet none of his potential experiments could hold his attention. No research soothed the turmoil of a brain that felt like squirrels in a bag.

He stood on the couch, examining the edges of a bullet hole, when he felt an anomaly in the wall. He dug a little, long fingers slipping into the plaster, grasping and tugging. He pulled a small folded envelope from the hole. He sat carefully, unwrapping the packet and exhaling in triumph. He set it on the edge of the couch gently and dashed off, returning with John's emergency doc bag. Fumbling through the kit he found a length of flat blue tourniquet and a syringe. The cure for boredom. He'd known there had to be a stash somewhere. The scene with the doctor at Mycroft's had practically screamed that there would be.

A few minutes later he stared up at the skull on the mantle. It stared back, empty eye sockets giving no advice. Sherlock blinked, looking away. The needle found its place in the vein, the sweet burn rushing through him. The spent syringe fell to to the floor with a dull thump as his body slackened. His bare arm drooped off the couch, other arm across his eyes, one foot on the back of the couch and the other on the floor.

The squirrels stopped their frenetic scramble, the webs unwound and floated away, the jumbled hazy thoughts falling quieter and quieter and quieter until finally there was nothing but peace. A tiny voice trembled through the dark. - _How much did you take? Did you write it down? It's been a long time since the last fix... How much did you take?_ \- The voice quivered, then fell silent.


End file.
